Our winged whimsy, Art,
sailing above the kitchen soffit atop his little figured houseâ€“
a lopsided star above leaping orange fish and green waves in front,
a sea scallop in a heart out backâ€“
penates of culinary skills and poetryâ€“
went crashing yesterday,
nudged by a shadow.
All those divine powers gone smash in an instant.
One black clodhopper,
his star wand and the raised arm that blessed all below with light,
his round head with its hair shocked outright,
his whole riven body,
rivering across the floor.
It’s a frail music knits the world together.
A little god made of sticks and paint. Ruddy cheeked and cheerful.
on awning-striped wings.
deceptions of distance,
distortions of perspective.
Holding his small head in my hands now,
I see his eyes are wide, his cheeks pallid,
the perfectly round mouth shaping a single frozen noteâ€“Oh!â€“ofâ€“
is it fear or surpriseâ€“?
O O O O!
Rainy, grey, and cold.
A week’s gone by, and this morning it’s still evening.
The god’s head and star-wand still drift the kitchen counter.
His torso, one splintered leg, and his raised arm
lay morgued in a cardboard box on a worktable in the garage
waiting for the miracle of reassembly.
So far all glues have failed.
I think this god is made of alder wood.
I think this god is made of apple or elm.
A grain that doesn’t bond.
Shadow sits in the window now.
A flute warbles on the stereo from some far symphonic arbor.
I study the sodden trees, silvered leaves.
And I think about kindling a fire in the fireplace
to drive the chill off,
to sweeten this empty neighborhood with smoke.